


the greatest survival

by forever_wandering



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Acceptance, Angst, Fluff, Gen, Love, Minor Injuries, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-08-29 23:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8510206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forever_wandering/pseuds/forever_wandering
Summary: Training in Russia, training in Japan. It takes a lot to get to the top.a.k.a. Yuri Plisetsky is a sad, sarcastic little shit, Yuuri Katsuki discovers how fun skating with someone else is, and Victor Nikiforov is totally enjoying coaching way too much.A series of standalone, semi-related one shots.





	1. i have loved the stars too fondly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the stars are the same all over the world, and so too is the sun--but how one sees them is all up to their own eyes.

 

**St. Petersburg, Russia. 00:14.**

_Deplorable. Again!_

Ten. Eleven. Midnight. How long has he been here in this ballet studio with its spotless glass mirrors, spinning in circles and kicking his way across the floor? Hours and hours, and even longer since he last ate. No matter; he can just eat later. Tomorrow. After morning practice. He could probably never eat again and be fine.

Yuri stops after his latest series of leaps and stares at himself in the mirror for a few moments. His thin, lithe form, hinting at somewhere between a girl and a boy. His long, sleek hair, coming loose from the holder he'd tied it up in. The dark circles beginning to show under his eyes.

 _No good,_ he thinks.  _I'll have to cover that up tomorrow._

He has tomorrow's practice in less than six hours, and he is not yet done with today's. He has not eaten more than an apple and a granola bar in twelve hours. The world's rules dictate that this should be impossible, that he should collapse.

Yuri Plisetsky is not bound by the rules of this world.

* * *

**Hasetsu, Japan. 6:14.**

"Yuuri! Turn your foot out more! It will help you stick your landing," Victor calls out across the rink. Yuuri nods, stepping off to the rhythm of his skates, preparing to attempt the quadruple Salchow once more. He leaps into the air, but in a moment of confusion, steps out of the jump early and crashes into the ice.

"Yuuri!" Victor skates toward him and reaches out a hand to help him up. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Yuuri says, wincing at the scrape on his arm. "I was a little distracted." Victor frowns.

"Did you sleep well last night?" 

"I--" Yuuri pauses. "No, not really. I couldn't really fall asleep. I don't know why."

"Let's take a break," Victor suggests. "We won't get anywhere if you're not focused. Besides, you've been working so hard lately!"

"But the Salchow--"

"And we'll get some breakfast too! Ooh, are there any more places in town that you haven't taken me--"

Yurui Katsuki smiles, eternally grateful that his coach understood his body's needs so well.

* * *

**St. Petersburg, Russia. 6:30.**

"Again!" Lilia Baranovskaya snaps at her young blond protege, who is posed dramatically in the middle of the ice, panting slightly. Straightening himself up, Yuri skates to the corner to begin his routine anew, mind beaten bloody with thoughts of every mistake he's made. Every mistake that he knows he shouldn't have made, digging under his skin. He yearns to rip them out, scratch away every error until he is left bloody and bruised and  _perfect_. Yuri narrows his eyes.  _Again_ , he thinks.  _Again and again until there are no mistakes left._

When he finishes practice, he can hardly walk. He gingerly makes his way to the locker room, where he takes off his skates and rubs his feet, finally daring to pull off his sock. Bruises, blue and fresh, stare back at him. There are bright red blisters on his heels and the side of his foot, and he sees the beginning of swelling in the tender flesh. Angrily, he rips off his other sock. His right foot is no better.

He grinds his teeth. No wonder he couldn't land his jumps perfectly in practice. Not when his feet look like they have just gone through a meat chopper. This is a mistake all on him; he must have not tied his skates correctly. But he doesn't have time to dwell on it. He has an hour's break, and then he has private classes with Lilia to improve his ballet. He doesn't have time to deal with his feet right now. They will have to wait until later. 

Yuri slips on his sneakers, draws up his hoodie, and heads out of the ice rink, limping with every step.

He makes his way to the bus stop, fishing out the money he knows he will need before sticking his hands back into his pocket. It is freezing, and he only has his hoodie over his training clothes. On the bright side, he can barely feel the pain in his feet anymore, so he decides to stay quiet and growl menacingly at anyone who dares look at him.

The bus doesn't take too long to get there and Yuri steps on gratefully, anxious for the meager warmth that the bus provides. Then he curses at himself.  _Stupid_ , he berates himself,  _you don't need the two degree difference between the inside of this tin trash can and the hell that is Mother Russia._ His feet are beginning to hurt again, and he hates it. His body is betraying him in every way, and he cannot stop it. He cannot stop himself from growing taller, or his chest from puffing out, or his thighs becoming thicker with muscle. His only option is to rip himself apart into tiny pieces, shatter every broken piece of himself into dust, just to try to build himself into a fairy, tiny and delicate.

The bus driver calls out his stop and he shakes it off, drawing in a deep breath. The bus leaves him behind in a cloud of smoke, and Yuri pauses for one more second in front of the monolith of a hospital before slowly making his way towards the entrance.

* * *

**Hasetsu, Japan. Monday evening, 16:30.**  

"How do you think Yurio is doing?" Yuuri asks Victor as they sit on the beach, eating steamed meat and vegetable buns. They had returned to practice for nearly eight hours, but now, as the sun sets, they decide to take in the glow of the day sinking into the sea. "I mean, after, you know, the whole leaving thing and competition and promise and all..."

"He'll be fine," Victor says blithely, taking another bite of his bun. "Yuri is a strong, capable young man."

"But still, he's only fifteen," Yuuri counters. "You don't think our competition might have affected him?" Victor shrugs.

"I've known Yuri since he was four years old and coming to skate in the rink with his grandpa. He never lets anything faze him. Not his grandfather's death, not his mother's illness, nothing. He'd kill himself before he showed weakness."

 _That might be the problem,_ Yuuri thinks to himself, but doesn't say it out loud.

"Victor, have you ever gone swimming in the sea?" he asks instead. Victor shakes his head.

"Russia is too cold for that. Why, if I tried, I'd end up in ice--and not in the good way!"

"You have to try it sometime. It's the most relaxing thing. The sea in summer is big and blue and even though you can taste the salt on your tongue for hours afterwards, it still tastes sweet. Like sunshine. Hot springs are amazing and all, but the wonder of the ocean is kind of incomparable." 

"It sounds absolutely beautiful." Victor turns to give Yuuri that billion-watt smile that makes millions of fans melt, and Yuuri himself is no different. "You should take me sometime."

"As soon as it's warm enough," Yuuri promises. He is basking in warmth, surrounded by the heat of Victor's affection, the warm steam coming off his bun, and the glow of the setting sun. It doesn't matter that it is almost cold enough to freeze; Yuuri thinks he has never felt warmer in his life.

* * *

**St. Petersburg, Russia. 23:07.**

Yuri is cold. Also, he can't sleep.

It's 11 pm--well past the time he needs to be asleep by--and all he can do is stare up at the ceiling blankly. He can't even practice because his feet are so swollen and sore. He hates himself for it.

 _I have to be stronger_ , he thinks, closing his eyes again and huddling deeper into his blankets.  _I have to sleep so that I can be perfect. Why can't I make myself go to sleep? Why can't my mind turn off?_

On the insides of his eyelids, all he sees are shadows. He sees his grandfather, slipping away, covered by a coffin lid that was too plain for such an extraordinary man. He tries to remember the warmth of his grandfather's hand, but all Yuri can remember is how stiff and cold his body was in that coffin. He sees his mother, pale and weak in the hospital, holding his hand, asking him to be strong. He can still feel her grip from earlier today, weak and frail, against his callused hands. He sees Victor, leaving him behind to pursue a random skater on nearly the other side of the world, breaking his promise to Yuri. It had been the only thing Yuri had ever asked for from the older skater, and he had done the impossible--win the Junior Grand Prix three times, the last time without a quad at all. He sees Lilia, bony fingers reaching out to grab and fix every twist and turn of his body, highlighting his imperfections. He sees Yakov, screaming at him from the edge of the rink, as if wondering why it wasn't Victor who was spinning on the ice now. Why it wasn't the legend, only the small, second rate skater who couldn't beat a fat pig out of his prime.

Yuri opens his eyes again, the terrible weight of loneliness sinking into his chest as he lays in an unfamiliar bed in Lilia Baranovskaya's mansion. He has to turn this off. He can't afford to focus on the past, or even think on it. He chants a line from a poem he had learned long ago from a teacher, carving it into his mind.

_Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light.  
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light._

Yuri will rise, even if it takes selling his soul and body to do it.

* * *

**Hasetsu, Japan. 22:03.**

 "You're doing so well, Yuuri!" Victor praises, ice hissing under his skates as he glides gracefully to a stop. "Even if your technique there could have been a little cleaner. You've come a long way in a very short amount of time!" Yuuri nods, breathing heavily.

"Should we go again?" he asks eagerly, already gearing up to do another set of drills to further improve his footwork. Victor frowns, tapping his lips.

"I was giving you a compliment instead of  _criticism_ so we could wrap up for today. It's pretty late already, and you have to sleep enough in order to function your best on the ice! Hard work is important, but overtraining will hurt you more than just taking a break." Yuuri pauses, looking at his watch. Startled, he realizes that it's already well past ten.

"You're right. Wow, we've been here for almost twelve hours today." Yuuri scratches the back of his head. "I didn't even realize it." _I was so busy having fun on the ice...I can't remember the last time I skated this much with someone who could keep up with me._ "Let's go home," he says. Victor beams.

"Excellent! Come, Yuuri, let's go take a bath together!" 

As they walk back, Victor slings an easy arm around Yuuri's shoulders, gesticulating wildly with his free arm. Maccachin follows close behind, panting happily and occasionally nudging Yuuri's leg.

"...and then Yakov said, 'Victor, if you are going to be out all night, the least you could do is take Mr. Princess there with you!'" Victor relates, laughing heartily. The moonlight shines off his silver hair, and he pushes a fist into Yuuri's side. "Tomorrow, we'll work on your free program more. We've focused so much on the  _Eros_ that even Maccachin could do it in his sleep!"

When they finally make it back to the hot springs, Minako and Mari are waiting for them at the door.

"Where have you been?!" Minako yells as soon as she sees them. "Do you know what time it is? Don't you know you need proper rest and sleep and food to perform well?" Yuuri flushes; it is his fault, after all. 

"Ooh! You sound just like me!" Victor exclaims. "I just told Yuuri that earlier!" Mari grumbles, but pulls them inside.

"We saved some food for you two, since  _apparently_ you can't be bothered to come home at a decent hour," she mutters, pushing them towards the dining room. "Go eat, and make sure to get a good hot bath afterwards."

"Thanks, Mari," Yuuri says as he sits down at the table. "Itadakimasu!"

After a hot meal, he and Victor go to the onsen, and Yuuri immediately relaxes into the hot water. He hasn't really thought about it until now, but his back and shoulders are stiff from holding poses all day, and he groans when he sinks down, water covering his mouth.

"Sore?" Victor asks, settling in behind him. "I know, I've had many a day where I held my arms up so long I couldn't feel them at the end." Large hands wrap around Yuuri's shoulders, thumbs pressing into the flesh between his shoulderblades. "Let me help with that."

Yuuri decides, half an hour later, that Victor has the hands of a god and can massage him  _anytime_.

* * *

 

**St. Petersburg, Russia. 16:03.**

Yuri's evening ballet practice is cancelled today. Lilia has an emergency with a few of her other ballet students and, though she's usually unforgiving about practice, Yakov had pointed out that Yuri has been putting in twelve hours a day consistently and had convinced her to let him take the evening off. So now, he's wandering around St. Petersburg, trying to ignore his dying feet, which _still_ throb and hurt like hell. The sun is setting behind the towering steeples and churches lining the skyline, and he pauses to look. It's an awe-inspiring sight, and he wishes he could share it.

"You look lonely, young man," a voice next to him. Startled, Yuri flinches away, only to be met with the face of a local street vendor. Yuri's never spoken to the man or bought anything from him, but he's a constant presence in this part of the city, always selling food and trinkets with a smile. Yuri has often sneered at the man mentally, belittling his cheer and goodwill when it is abundantly clear that the man has almost nothing for himself.

"Here, take this," the man says, still grinning. He offers a piece of candy to Yuri--chocolate-covered praline, he thinks--and the young blond hesitantly takes it.

"Thanks," he says, unsure of why it feels like he's about to cry.

"No problem, _malenkiy malchik_ ," the street vendor beams. "Come see me anytime!" With a wave, the man walks away, leaving Yuri with the praline. He looks at it hesitantly, knowing that he shouldn't eat it, that is it full of sugar and fat and everything  _he does not need_ in his body. But dammit, he is cold and he can't practice at the rink, so he thinks he can probably indulge this once.

He doesn't let himself think any longer, taking a tiny nibble of the candy. The sweetness coats his tongue, thick and almost sickening. It's cold, but the caramel feels warm in his mouth and it is  _really_ nauseatingly sweet and--  
It tastes exactly like the pralines his grandfather used to buy him, back when he took Yuri to the ice rink every day.

He spits it out, trying to get the cloying sweetness out of his mouth, off his lips. He shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have even been tempted to eat the candy. He can almost feel the sugar and fat settling into his body, wrapping him in layers and layers under his skin until he looks like the fat pig, the Japanese Yuuri. 

 _No,_ he snarls at himself, chucking the praline as far away from him as he can. _This is not me. This will not ruin me. I will be stronger._

* * *

**Hasetsu, Japan. 3:23.**

Victor is having trouble sleeping. Usually he is out as soon as he hits the bed (a necessity of being a profressional ice skater) and doesn't stir until eight hours are up--or if Yuuri jumps into his bed with a newly composed piece of music to show him. But tonight, he can barely doze off. 

With a sigh, he strokes Maccachin's fur, propping himself up on his free hand. 

"Do you miss Russia too, you dog?" he asks affectionately, scratching behind Maccachin's ears. Victor knows that Japan is warmer than his dog is used to, since Russia tends to become a frozen wasteland as soon as autumn begins setting in. Even so, Victor misses the chill of the winter wind, the cry of gulls in the early morning, and, he thinks wryly, even Yakov and his angry Russian kitten. 

Briefly, he does wonder how Yuri is doing. The boy is probably the most insanely talented skater Victor has ever met. Even Victor had held off making his senior debut until he was sixteen, and hadn't won the Grand Prix until he was twenty. Perfection takes time, and the only thing that worries him about the younger skater is how rash he is.

 _Stupid boy,_ he thinks.  _Your rival is eight years older than you and has a hundred times more experience. You should be proud that you're competitive at all in the senior division._

Yuuri needs more help than his Russian counterpart. Yuuri is nearing the end of his rope and is probably fast losing hope. And Yuuri captures Victor's attention in a way that Yuri never did. He can't bring himself to regret coming to Japan, not when he had found someone so in tune with his vision of what skating should be. Besides, it's not like Yuri is unused to being alone; that boy shies away from human interaction so much that Victor wonders if every single human being on earth had personally offended him. And if he's being honest, Victor hasn't thought about Yuri since the younger Russian left Japan, save for that one time Yuuri brought him up. Maybe Victor should feel guilty for breaking his promise to Yuri, but Japan is so good to him that he really can't be bothered to think on it too much. 

Being in Japan with Yuuri has been amazing. The support is unconditional, the town is so precious and small, and Yuuri himself is exceptional.  Victor has been made to feel at home, thousands of miles away from  _home,_ and that is something wonderful indeed. He may miss Russia a little, but no, he has no regrets about leaving. Coaching is fun, he loves his new pupil, and seeing the world like this?

Yeah, he can get used to this. 

* * *

  **St. Petersburg, Russia. 20:24.**

Yuri is still wandering around the city, unwilling to go back to Lilia's icy mansion and even more unwilling to return to his cold, empty apartment. An hour and a half ago, he had bought a meager meal of a juice box and half a sandwich, staying in the shop for a while to drive the cold from his bones and give his sore feet a break. But he has to leave eventually, 

Without realizing it, he ends up at the park. It is almost empty now; the weather is beginning to be truly cold, biting at every inch of exposed skin. But Yuri doesn't have anywhere to go, so he starts walking slowly through the park. Most of the trees are empty and bare now, skeletal fingers reaching towards the sky. 

Yuri looks up and instantly feels the breath knocked out of his lungs. 

_Stars._

There are so many, so bright and glittering, sweeping across the sky. He hasn't looked up in a long time, hasn't had the time or thought to. But now, when he feels more alone than ever, the stars accompany him. 

He makes his way to the pond absently, eyes still fixed on the points of light above him. Without thinking, he puts down his bag and pulls out his skates. The pond is frozen by now and has been for weeks; it will easily hold his weight. He laces up, throws off his jacket, and pushes off onto the frozen water.

Immediately, he feels at home. The whisper of blades shearing across ice is a familiar one, and the cold air nipping at his skin makes him feel alive. He takes a deep lungful of freezing oxygen, then spins off. He isn't thinking about technique now. He is skating just because it is his favorite thing in the whole world. 

Above him, the stars seem to hum, saying to him,  _Skate for us, Yuri Plisetsky. Show us your talent. Make us weep with your beauty._

 _I love you,_ Yuri thinks distractedly.  _I love your light and your company and for being my companions when I have no one else._

He skates with his head tipped up at the sky, turning around and around on the ice. Now he is skating for the stars, waiting for their heavenly approval. 

Nothing feels difficult. Every jump is flawless, every step graceful beyond compare. He is lost in his head and in the sky, dancing alone beneath the huge black canvas that welcomes him in. He is  _feya,_ he is light and perfect and free. 

_We love you too, Yuri Plisetsky._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yell at me on tumblr: shadowsinthetrees.tumblr.com
> 
> malenkiy malchik: little boy  
> feya: fae, fairy
> 
> the poem is from Sarah Williams' "The Old Astronomer to His Pupil."
> 
> please leave a comment and let me know what you think!


	2. a mid-december night's dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Grand Prix Finals, where everything comes tumbling down until it is all in perfect disarray. The pretenses fall and the world awaits.  
> A little angst, a little fluff.

_I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,_

_Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,_

_Quite o’ercanopied with luscious woodbine,_

_With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine_

* * *

 

“...and from Russia, Yuri Plisetsky is this year’s Grand Prix champion!”

The roars from the crowd are deafening, and Yuri lifts his chin up to stare back defiantly at the crowd. He is only looking for two faces, the only two faces that matter in his victory. He scans the VIP section, and--there. The fat pig, with an idiotic grin on his face, and Victor, with an arm wrapped around his shoulders, smile so wide it splits his face in half.

Yuri feels irrationally angry at them. What right do they have to be so happy, so _content_ , when Yuri has given all of himself for a victory that feels, at this moment, empty?

He hates them. This, he is sure of.

* * *

“Good job,” Yakov says when he meets him later. “Though if Victor had been competing…” He leaves the rest unsaid, because it doesn’t have to be said.

_You would have lost._

Yuri’s fingers curl together, hard and angry, and he has to resist the urge to slam his fist into something. Preferably Yakov’s face. How is it that he can win the biggest international competition in the world and still be second-rate to someone who didn’t even skate this season?

“Shut up,” he mutters under his breath. Yakov does not hear him; he has turned his attention to Georgi Popovich, the other skater under his tutelage at the GPF. Yuri scowls and turns away from his coach. He needs some fresh air, and the press conference for the win won't be for another two hours. He needs those two hours to prepare himself to see the Japanese pig and Mr. Shiny Silver Haired Legend. He needs to figure out why winning, while it feels like a grim point made, doesn't give him any sort of happiness other than a bitter-tasting, meager amount of self righteousness. No, Yuri has to get away.

He doesn't even make it out of the building before his ass is grabbed.

“The _hell_?” he screams, nearly dropping his phone in surprise. Christophe Giacometti, ladies’ man and second place medalist, is beaming at him.

“I thought Yuri would be my biggest opponent. I was right, but I didn't expect it to be the fifteen year old one!” Yuri kicks the other skater’s hip, which earns him a hearty laugh and a hair ruffle.

“You know that what you just did could be counted as sexual assault, right?” Yuri says, temper flaring. Chris, being Chris, ignores it.

“Congratulations! You know, I’d love to see a showdown between you and Victor. Now _that_ would be a competition to watch.” Yuri, already displeased with having his ass fondled, is just about to dropkick the guy, but some meager amount of self control prevents him from doing so.

“Don’t compare me to him,” Yuri spits. “I already spent this whole year compared to a Japanese dumbass.” He is decidedly done with this conversation, so he flips Chris the bird and walks away. Thankfully, the other skater doesn't follow. Yuri decides to put in his earbuds to deter anyone else who may be looking to talk to him.

He makes it outside this time, Russian metal blasting in his ears. But he's still not alone. Yuuri, warm and happy, stands there with Victor, who looks so ridiculously proud that Yuri has trouble differentiating him from a peacock for a moment. For a second, his heart stops. He is not ready to deal with them. He doesn't know if he can handle it, away from the clinical, probing lights of the cameras and journalists. There is no safety net of not being able to say things to the public here.

“Yurio!” the Japanese Yuuri exclaims.

“That's not my name,” Yuri snarls, fully intent on turning heel and leaving, again. Yuuri catches his sleeve, keeping him there, and Yuri decides to hear them out--for now.

“You were really good out there,” the Japanese skater says softly. “I felt it.”

“I told you there was only room for one of us, and it was going to be me. I was right, wasn’t I?” he sneers, feeling a wave of sadistic pleasure at shoving his victory in the other's face.

“Yurio!” Victor exclaims in shock, and Yuri almost laughs at his expression of indignation.

“Shut up, you old baboon. I did better than him and you know it.”  Victor looks like he is about to argue, but thinks better of it and instead sighs.

“I'm proud of you, Yuratchka,” Victor says, mouth softening, and Yuri feels rage bubbling inside of him.

“Don't call me that,” he spits, hands balling into fists again. “And you have no right to be proud of me. _No right.”_

“Yuri, I--”

“ _No_ ,” Yuri insists. “You haven't done anything for me worth being proud of. You left Russia to chase a second rate skater. You broke the only goddamn promise I ever asked of you. You forgot about me as soon as you saw that godforsaken video.”

“Yura, please, listen--”

“No, you listen!” Yuri yells, shoving his face right up to Victor's. “You _left_ me. You decided that I wasn’t good enough for you. You don't have any right to tell me that you're _proud_ of me, like you didn't just fucking abandon me just like everyone else in my life!” Yuri is panting by now, boiling over with rage. “You didn't spare me a second thought as soon as you found your dearest _katsudon_. Don't pretend you can just smooth it over with a few words.”

For once, Victor is left speechless, mouth slightly open. Yuuri looks confused and worried, looking between the two of them like a gaping fish. There is a faint wetness at the edge of Yuri's eyes, and he drags a knuckle over his lids.

“Fuck you,” he says, almost helplessly, and turns away. Neither Victor nor Yuuri chase after him.

* * *

Yuri is stoic and composed for the interview.

“Of course I knew I was going to win,” he says to the flashing cameras. “That was never a question from the start.” To his left, Yuuri Katsuki frowns, making an expression of slight disbelief. Yuri ignores it, and only thinks about the stars in the sky. They were the only ones watching him.

When the conference is over, he goes into the athletes’ lounge. It is empty, since most of the skaters have long since gone to do their meet and greets or cry with their coaches about the results. He sinks into a couch and bonelessly melts into the cushions, pressing a hand to his stomach and wincing at the dull bite of pain. He is tired, too tired to keep his eyes open, and he drifts into an uneasy doze.

When he wakes up, it is--again--to the combined forces of Yuuri Katsuki and Victor Nikiforov. He groans. Maybe he is still sleeping and this is just a nightmare. Fate _has_ to be fucking with him right now.

“Yurio?” a slightly accented voice asks. Yuri squeezes his eyes shut tighter.

“Not my name,” he mumbles. Reluctantly, he opens his eyes fully this time, and--yep, right there across from him, Victor and Yuuri sit, practically in each others’ laps.  “I really don't want to talk to you. Can you fuck off?” The two glance at each other, and Yuri contemplates murder for a second.

“I want to apologize,” Victor says, and Yuri has to actually hold himself back from dropping his jaw to the floor.

“Come again?” he says, because Victor Nikiforov is the single most self-obsessed, oblivious, unapologetic idiot in the world, and Yuri has never heard the other man say anything close to admitting that he might be in the wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Victor says, and then in a rush, “I’m sorry I broke my promise and that I left Russia without telling you, and I really am sorry that I left you alone with Yakov and his psychopathic ex-wife and I’m sorry I never called you or asked how you were or gave you a single suggestion for a song and I’m just really, _really_ sorry.” Victor says all of this in one breath, as if afraid that Yuri is going to cut in, and by the end, his face is red and his eyes are big and glimmering with moisture.

“...” Yuri is trying to process all of this in his head, confusion and drowsiness making it far harder than it should be. This is so far removed from how Victor usually acts, all full of self confidence, that he briefly entertains the idea that the older male has been replaced by an alien. Victor is looking at him expectantly, as if expecting a reply, but Yuri is still too much in shock to do anything but sort of nod in acknowledgement. At least he’s not angry and yelling.

“Look, Yuri,” the Japanese Yuuri says hesitantly. “Victor told me about some stuff--you know, about you--”

And just like that, the spell is broken, and Yuri’s face hardens into a scowl again.

“Like what?” he demands, a hard edge in his voice, and Yuuri shrinks back, just like he did in that bathroom stall exactly a year ago. Victor might call Yuri a kitten, the fangirls might call him cute, but there is nothing soft or fuzzy about how downright _feral_ the young Russian skater is right now.

“Just, um, that your dad was never really around, and your mom is kind of sick, and…” Yuuri trails off, unsure about how much more he should say. Yuri does laugh this time, a sort of bitter, jaded laugh that sounds far too old to be coming out of the mouth of a fifteen year old, but this particular fifteen year old has never aligned well with what _should_ be.

“Is that it?” he asks, fingers moving to clutch at the gold medal on his chest.

“Well…” Yuuri seems hesitant about speaking more, averting his eyes. Victor is making not-so-subtle gestures for Yuuri to stop talking, to shut up, but Yuri wants it out.

“Did he tell you about my grandfather too? Or that Dad used to come home and beat me raw until I moved my mom and me away? You should tell me, you know. That way I know exactly how much more to tell you.”

“He told me that you always gave up too much of yourself for want of the victory,” Yuri finally says, and casts his eyes downwards once more. “That your greed came through too strong sometimes, and destroyed yourself in the process.”

Yuri stands up angrily, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Maybe your problem is that you don’t give up enough.”

There is a look in Victor’s eyes that Yuri doesn’t like, a look that is somewhere between pity  and resignation, and he wants to scream at how _unfair_ it is that he is still being judged and still being treated like a child after everything he’s gone through. Somewhere deep inside, he also knows that no matter what he does, he will always be second best to the shadow of Victor Nikiforov, but that thought is so painful that he ignores its existence.

“You always chase too much,” Victor finally says. “Do you remember--”

“ _Victor_ ,” Yuri hisses, eyes narrowing to slits. He knows where Victor is going with this. He doesn’t like it. “You know that I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I am sorry, Yura,” Victor says, gripping the Japanese Yuuri’s hand tightly. “But I thought we owed it to Yuuri--”

“You may owe him an explanation, but I owe neither of you anything! And you are trying to make up for your sins with my story and my life! Tell me, Victor, how is that fair?”

“You’re not making sense, Yuri,” Victor argues. “I only want the best for both you.”

“No,” Yuri corrects, “you want what is best for Yuuri. I’m done with you, Victor. I won today. I’m going to go back to Russia, break all of _your_ records, and history will know me as the best figure skater that has ever lived.” He’s not tired anymore. All he is is determined, and he swears to himself that he _will_ surpass Victor and Yuuri and anyone else who dares try to challenge him.

* * *

 “Victor,” Yuuri begins hesitantly after the Russian Yuri leaves in a personal whirlwind of anger, “what just happened?” Victor sighs, pushing back his hair.

“You know as well as I do that Yura is...difficult. He’s always been incredibly stubborn and incredibly hard on himself. I, uh, don’t really know how to deal with that.” He chuckles softly, leaning back into the couch.

“He looks lonely,” Yuuri says softly. “He won the biggest ice skating competition in the world, and he was passed out alone in this _godawful_ room.” He beckons at their meager surroundings to emphasize his point.

“Well, usually Mila jumps him after competitions and makes sure he eats something--”

“--but Mila isn’t here right now.” It’s Yuuri’s turn to sigh now. “Victor, why is he alone?”

“Well, you know about his family, there’s no way--”

“No, Victor, I mean, _why is he alone_? Why isn’t Yakov saying something nice to him? Why isn’t Georgi giving him dramatic flowers? Why aren’t you dragging him out to celebrate his win?”

“Oh.” Victor thinks for a second. “Well, I’m your coach, I have to be with you!”

“Oh my God,” Yuuri says. “All right, look. Here is what we are going to do. You are going to tell Yakov that you are taking Yuri out for the evening. Then we’re taking him to the best restaurant in town, and we can invite all of our skating friends too. We’re going to have a good time, we’re going to treat the _Grand Prix winner_ to a victory dinner, and then you’re going to sort out whatever it is between you two and promise you won’t do it again.”

“...ah.” Victor scratches his chin. “Okay, let me call Yakov!”

The call takes less than thirty seconds; Yakov, for all his grumpiness, does care deeply about his skaters and dislikes seeing any of them truly upset. Yuri has always been his problem child, a block that he could never chip away himself. It had taken a trip to Japan, Victor up and leaving, and his ex-wife taking the young skater under her (iron) hand to make a dent. And even as a coach, Yakov’s realized that Yuri is sorely lacking in human contact. He only hopes that the other Yuuri will keep Victor in check.

* * *

The dinner is loud and raucous. Victor seems to have invited every skater who is in the vicinity of the Grand Prix, and they are seated in their own personal room. Yuri doesn’t quite know how to handle such a celebration or the constant congratulations he is receiving, so he sits, abnormally quiet. The food is good, but even that begins to taste bland after a few minutes, so Yuri just watches the other skaters.

“Hey, gold medalist,” Jean-Jacques says when he ambles over, patting his shoulder. “You did real good out there. Can’t wait to see what you do next. I’ve never seen anyone so young skate so brilliantly.”

“Thanks,” Yuri mumbles. Jean Jacques pauses, taking in the look on the younger skater’s face.

“That’s the same face you had when you got second back at Skate Canada. I thought then that it was just because you didn’t get first. But right now, you’ve just skated better than anyone else in the whole world and you still look like that. Why is that?” Yuri doesn’t have a reply for him, so he scowls, trying to wipe _whatever_ expression it was that Jean Jacques had picked up on from his face.

“Hey, don’t get angry now,” Jean Jacques laughs. “You’re good. You deserved the win. And, if it makes you feel better, I’ve never been so intimidated by anyone--not even Victor Nikiforov.” He nods in the direction of Victor, draped over Yuuri like a blanket and force feeding the other a chunk of chicken. “As soon as you started your free program, I knew it was over. The way you carried yourself...you had more grace and confidence in the moments before you even started skating than anyone else here in the whole competition.”

“Is that so,” Yuri says flatly. But Jean Jacques’ words give him pause. _Not even Victor Nikiforov_.

“You’re still just a kitten, Plisetsky,” the Canadian skater says. “But I bet one day, you’ll become the king of the jungle.” He smiles at the young Russian, and Yuri feels a lump grow in his throat. He tries a weak smile, but it comes out more as a grimace.

“Thanks,” he says again.

“Try to have fun. It’s your party,” Jean Jacques replies, and turns away to socialize with other skaters who probably respond in more than just scowls and one-word answers. Yuri looks back at his food, which suddenly seems much more appetizing, and decides he can probably eat a little more.

The dinner party lasts well into the wee hours of the morning, with many of the older skaters getting drunker and drunker as the minutes pass. Unusually, Victor doesn’t seem to drinking at all; instead, it is Yuuri who is downing shot after shot of liquor. Yuri himself is reaching the point of exhaustion, and he is about to call it quits when Victor takes hold of his wrist and quietly asks to talk to him outside. Yuri is too tired and full and warm to even be angry at this point, so he nods in agreement and lets Victor lead him to a bench right outside of the restaurant.

“How are you feeling, Yura?” Victor asks, smiling at him like he had when he had first met Yuri, on an ice skating rink with his grandfather.

“Fine,” Yuri replies, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets for warmth. The inside of the restaurant might be toasty, but the December air outside almost burns with its iciness.

“I meant what I said earlier, you know,” Victor says. “I do apologize for not being the mentor I should have been.”

“But you don’t regret going to Japan.” It is a statement, one that is too loaded with unspoken accusations. Victor stays silent for a few moments before sighing.

“No,” he says finally. “I don’t. Nothing will ever make me regret meeting Katsuki Yuuri. He’s...hah. All the inspiration I was missing, all the things I lacked as a skater, everything I needed in my life at that moment.”

“So why are we even here?” Yuri demands, the hot fingers of anger beginning to clench in his stomach again. Victor shrugs.

“Because you deserved better. I do care about you, Yura, you must believe me. But I am a forgetful man who does impulsive things sometimes--”

“All the time,” Yuri corrects.

“All the time,” Victor agrees. “That wasn’t fair to you. I won’t do anything that thoughtless again. I know I can’t really make it up to you, and for that, I am truly sorry. Can you find it in yourself to forgive me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuri grumbles. “You’re sorry, I get it. But _God_ , do you have to make it so difficult for the rest of us?” There is a beat of silence, and then Victor laughs in delight and throws his arms around the young blond, almost strangling him in a tight hug.

“Hey! Get off! I didn’t say I forgive you--”

“But you will anyways,” Victor says with absolute certainty, and Yuri hates how right he is. “Maybe not tonight, or tomorrow, but eventually, you’re going to forgive me and become best friends with Yuuri too! I'm going to make sure of it.”

“Get _off_ me,” Yuri snarls, trying and failing to ignore the growing warmth in his chest. Yes, he is still mad at Victor for breaking his promise. Yes, he resents the Japanese piglet for taking Victor from the world. Yes, thinking about what Victor did still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. But the hollowness inside his chest is starting to fill up, the anger is muted now, and the tension he had carried with him since _Hot Springs On Ice_ is starting to dissolve away.

“Just so you know, Yuri,” Victor whispers to him, “you never needed my help to win anyways.”

“I _know_ , old man!” he shrieks, flailing to get out of Victor’s grip. Laughing, Victor releases him and Yuri falls into the snow, the cold wetness pressing against his neck. He yells in shock and tackles Victor down into the snow too, kicking the powdery flakes over his face. Then he turns and stomps his way back into the restaurant, Victor following in helpless giggles behind him.

“Well,” Jean Jacques Leroy says when he catches sight of them, “I assume things went well?”

“Shut up,” Yuri says, but even his menacing tone can’t hide the small smile that is growing over his face. His win doesn’t feel blank anymore, and it finally feels like he has accomplished something worthwhile. It’s a new feeling, and he intends to savor it.

That is, until a very, very drunk Yuuri Katsuki stumbles into him and knocks them both onto the ground.

“Ow! Watch it, fatso!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yell at me on tumblr: shadowsinthetrees.tumblr.com
> 
> please leave a comment and let me know what you think!


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